Vanilla Salt Read Online Free PDF Page B

taking things a bit too fast in devising this offer. As usual, it’s a case of getting down to business straight away. She’s gutsy, dynamic and impetuous. And very generous. She can’t resist helping if she thinks she can. More than anything else she wants people to know that a great chef is waiting to cook for them in a restaurant in Bigues i Riells.
    In bed, covered up to her nose with the childhood quilt she’s somehow managed to cram into her suitcase, a niggling question keeps her awake. Why won’t Àlex use food from the New World. Why?

 
     
     
     
     
    3
    SALTY
    Elementary good manners require silence when something major is placed on the table: a turkey, a pâté or Arles sausage. They are all, of course, manifestly more eloquent than people .
    RAOUL PONCHON
    “Good morning. How’re we doing, family?” shouts Frank Gabo as he brings the fish into Antic Món. Sardines today.
    He’s a good young fellow and carefree by nature. His only education is what life has dished out to him. His Mozambican parents were in the first group of African immigrants who came to the Maresme region a couple of decades ago. His Catalan is impeccable. He doesn’t even get the weak pronouns wrong. He laughs with gusto, mouth open, and his incredibly white teeth seem to spark flashes off the omnipresent, gleaming stainless steel of the kitchen.
    “Good morning,” Annette answers.
    Àlex doesn’t bother to greet him. He’s too busy rolling out fresh pasta.
    “Hey boss, got a new girl in the office then?”
    “Mind your own business, Frank. What have you got for me today? Sardines? Local, I hope. Let’s check the eyes. I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you. You’re too fishy.”
    Àlex loves scrapping with Frank. They get on well, though no one would guess it judging from the barbs flying back and forth. They’re just playing, no harm intended.
    “Àlex, I need to talk with you… and, er, I’d prefer not to do so in front of this girl here.”
    “Don’t worry, Frank. She’s a foreigner and her Catalan’s worse than an Eskimo’s. Say whatever you like but don’t try to fool me with those sardines, telling me they’re from the Gulf of Roses when I can see they’ve been dredged out of the Llobregat Delta, right next to some damn factory.”
    “Listen, friend, I’m not here to talk about sardines. It’s a problem with the boss. He says we’re not bringing you any more fish because you’ve got unpaid bills mounting up from six months ago. He can’t keep supplying you if you don’t pay, Àlex. Unless you pay at least a part. I’m really sorry. You know I—”
    “I hope your boss chokes on an umbrine bone, you fucking lackey!” Àlex yells. “Damn it, I’ve been wanting to change my supplier for a while now. Your fish stinks. It’s the worst in the whole region. If you can’t appreciate the fact that you’re working with the best bloody cook in this godforsaken country, you can bugger off.”
    Àlex, red-faced, waves a knife around as he’s shouting.
    Annette is a horrified witness to all this. She stares at the sharp knife without knowing what to do. Maybe a murder’s about to happen, right here. Should she call the police?
    In less than a minute her boss goes from the most histrionic raving to total composure, his face fading from puce to waxy pallor as the violent storm subsides into the balmiest calm. He puts the knife back on the table and keeps rolling out pasta as if nothing has happened.
    Frank leaves, feeling distressed. Having to tell Àlex that he can’t deliver there any more is like stabbing him in the heart. Things aren’t going well at Antic Món. Everyone in the town’s talking about it. The restaurant’s had its time of glory and now it’s going to rack and ruin. Only a few of his friends have been eating there and even they’ve stopped coming.Everyone knows that, with the first sign of any problem, friends desert like rats from a sinking ship.
    No one comes for lunch